


Naming The Crayons

by whirlpoolsleep



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-07
Updated: 2010-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-07 02:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whirlpoolsleep/pseuds/whirlpoolsleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During/post 'Lover's Walk' goes AU, Xander cracks, Xander watches, Spike gets watched. Originally posted for fall_for_sx (2004)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naming The Crayons

Xander never realized the way sounds could be pushed to the back like comforting white noise nothingness or, even at the lowest notch, can become the sole focus of your mind. The beep of the hospital monitor has been in both categories throughout the past few years, right now it's in the latter.

He hates sitting here and just watching her. Memorizing her medication schedule and waiting exactly fifteen minutes after her Demerol shot before sneaking into the room. A helpless and quiet Cordelia, not something that was easy to wrap your head around. So pale and bare. He hadn't seen her face free of makeup since the sixth grade. She really was more beautiful this way. Too bad he'd never be able to tell her - assure her - of that.

Knowing that he has about three hours before she comes to, he says things. Rambles on, hoping at moments that he can affect her subconscious, praying at times that his words don't flood her dreams.

"Hey, Cordy. I'm still sorry. It was a thing and there was a tux and maybe it was the shiny shoes, but it doesn't make it right and I'm so sorry. And Willow's sorry, too. I mean I figure she is; she called me once to see how you were and now she's not so much with the heart-to-heart Xander conversations. She's, um, she's been trying to get Oz to take her calls, at least that's the news from the Buffy front. Buffy said to tell you 'hi,' by the way."

He sits there, running his thumbnail in between the ridges in the denim of his jeans and listening to the faint scratchy zipping sound it made, feeling the slight fabric burn at the tip of his thumb. He figures he should stop, his hand may catch fire, not because it's the Hellmouth, because it's him.

"Spike left, no more kidnapping and concussing. Unless you end up knocking me out when you're better. Which, you have entirely earned the right to do."

He wants to hold her hand, run his hand across her brow – touch her. But he can't, he knows he's lost the right.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

There are times when having drunkenly oblivious parents can work for you. Like when your world is falling apart yet again. What would he tell his mom if she actually noticed that he hadn't left his room in days, if his dad was conscious long enough to hear the tennis ball attack the wall repeatedly? He could just imagine that conversation.

_Yeah, guys, see I was dating the most popular girl in school, but I was cheating on her with Willow. Yes, mom, little Willow Rosenberg from down the street. Yes, mom, I know you think she's adorable and would be the perfect daughter-in-law; could you focus for a sec? Thanks. Anyway, so we decided to end the behind-the-back kiss fests, but then this vampire came, knocked me out, kidnapped us, put us in a factory and it made it really hard to not kiss her again. Yes, dad, I said 'vampire,' keep up, would ya? Cordelia, that's the popular girl, she caught us and fell through the stairs onto a rebar. No, not 'cause of the kissing, because of the crispiness of the factory. So, now Cordy won't take my calls…_

And he'd tried. Xander had called her every hour on the twenty-second minute of each the hour for three days. One time she actually answered; well, she'd picked up the receiver only to slam it back down in his ear. But it was still headway.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Apparently, whether or not your parents notice you haven't stepped foot out of your room for over a week is irrelevant, because the school attendance office _will_. And they'll call and that leads to threats of truancy court, which of course, opens the door to demands that he get his 'lazy, good for nothing, worthless ass' to school.

So, he hauls said ass into the shower, throws on some cleanish clothes and starts his walk to school, because even though they're making him go, they sure as hell aren't going to help him get there.

He started up the steps to the school, left foot on the first step, and ran his hand over the railing, bracing himself, _-stalling-_, getting ready. And wow, weren't his shoelaces the most interesting things. Taking a deep breath, he looked up and saw the backs of his best friends entering the building, swinging sets of sunlit wheat and henna red swaying in that girlbounce rhythm. He could do this; it was just a few classes.

Of course, the first class was with his girls.

Ambling into the school as Xander Harris was bad enough, as Cordelia Chase's ex it was worse, but doing both of those friendless was beyond. Peering through the doorway into English class, he saw that empty seats surrounded his desk. Off toward the back he saw Buffy standing with Willow, which, of course, meant no one was standing with him.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

He'd sat alone during lunch. Hidden in the shadows of a corner, toying uselessly with the cafeteria's version of pepperoni pizza and people-watched. Cordelia wasn't due back for a few days and he didn't know whether to feel relieved or terrified. A few times he'd caught Buffy sending out her 'I'm not _choosing_ sides, I'm doing the girl thing' looks of demurred sympathy in his direction. Her eyes might have said he was still her friendly Xander friend, but it was tough to tell since she hadn't so much as breathed the same air as him all day.

He's made bad choices his entire life. A lot of them, actually. So when the newest multiple bubble question popped up, he knew better than to think it would go anywhere near the way it should.

He could A) sit here and pick at his pizza, B) see what Giles could occupy him with, or C) get the hell off the campus of misery, bad crust and funky tomato sauce. In true Harris fashion, he chose the easiest option.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The thing about Sunnydale was that the day life was deader than the night. A city with nothing to do, especially if you're flat broke. For a moment he wondered if heading home was worth the effort it would take to convince his mother that it was already after 4 o'clock, before deciding it isn't, even though he knows he can do it. Sadly, he _has_ done it. Some of his best work.

If being the punishment connoisseur that he was has taught him nothing else, it's shown him that a painful wound hurts even more when you poke at it. So, realizing that his underhanded feet had lead him to the factory was not so much a surprise as a given. And Xander accepts this, like he's accepted most of the things life has thrown at him; Buffy, vampires, Cordelia, head traumas, Willow, everything. That's his job; go with the flow, then fetch the flow its snacks and jewelry.

He stood at the top of the scorched staircase and thought about how safe sitting on the edge of the hole Cordy had created would be. Not very, he supposed, and instead opted for wall hugging and tiptoeing around the saw-toothed contour of it until he reached the last sturdy step Cordelia's feet had hit. He took one last look down into the gape and found himself staring at the ruddy marks staining the iron bar, getting lost in that shimmer eye-view that happens when one has forgotten that blinking is natural and necessary.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

He's been there for hours. He knows this because the bright slivers of sunlight he'd watched ballet through the open space of the half closed door have stopped. He's pretty sure the rays had stopped dancing way before he noticed. He'd taken the time to run his fingers over every charred intimation in the burnt out factory _-lair, vampire nest-_ turning bits and pieces of the monsters' belongings in his hands. Cracked doll faces, an etched cigarette lighter, scraps of lace and measures of hemp rope, beeswax candles, dresses, melted LPs, stacks of black jeans and t-shirts to match. Creature comforts for comfortable creatures.

It had never occurred to him that Spike ever changed his clothes, that Spike took the time to make sure he could maintain his image. It does occur to him that he's never really put much thought it to Spike. Mostly he tended to think 'run' or 'hide.'

After he'd examined all the trashed treasures, he'd flopped himself back onto the bed, noticing it was actually pretty cozy. The things you miss out on when you're unconscious and bleeding from the head.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

He'd fallen asleep. Not for long, just a nap it seems, not even long enough for his tongue to get fuzzy, but still, not the safest place doze off.

As if solely to drive that point home, the door starts to push open further. Holding his breath, Xander makes a break for it, holes himself up in a small supply closet near the corner of the room and waits. He can hear him and catch the scent of him - thwump of heavy boots on the concrete floor and the swish of Spike's walk, worn leather and stale smoke - but it's a bad angle and Xander can't see him through the crack of open door he has.

Xander hears Spike mumbling, that random inventory talk you get going when you know your agenda.

"The special chains, how could I forget? Need those."

"Bugger, best dress is singed, have to pick up a new frock on the way."

"Wonder if I should pop in and off the Slayer? Still got my invite, I'm sure. Rattling bracelets of Slayer teeth, that'd be a proper gift."

"Damn Zippo's got to be here somewhere. Has sentimental value it does. For me and for the bloke that I killed for it, I'm sure."

Spike has stepped into Xander's line of vision and Xander's stuck. Torn between disgust, curiosity, loyalty and fascination, he watches. Notices, for the first time, that Spike is slight in stature, smaller than him. Didn't feel like it when Spike had wrapped his arm around Xander's neck and pulled Xander's body tight against his own or when he flung him to the classroom floor. 'Looks are deceiving,' Xander thinks, as he fingers the still unhealed gash on his head.

He gradually becomes aware of the fact that Spike looks unreal and concludes that he is, in undeniable fact, a beautiful man –vampire, beast, demon, killer– with bones that are at once fine spun and sharp edged, with eyes that he had once thought were blue held the flickering light from the candles Xander had lit earlier and now seemed more of an incandescent gray.

Candles.

Candles _he'd lit._

He shoved his hand into his pocket and froze when he felt his fingertips run over the same lighter Spike was currently ransacking the factory rubble for.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

There's less than four inches of open door, but from the moment Spike stepped into his line of vision he hasn't left. He locks his lungs to keep from breathing, while Spike flings overcooked mementos around and rants madly in the stale basement air.

He takes it all in; the way the hem of Spike's coat gets tangled and caught on random objects that have been strewn across the factory floor, how Spike's steady clomp has changed into a softer stride, like he's trying not to step on anything that may be important. He watches as the vampire's human face flickers away and the duster is thrown to the ground with in growled flourish, blaming it for his inability to find what he needs.

The bright slate gray of his eyes have faded into a backlit honey color, the shift of Spike's real face should overpower them, but it only brings them out. And Xander finds it so amusing that the sight of Angel's demon makes his skin itch and his fists ball up, but not this vampire. This one wears his beast with pride.

The frantic mumblings have turned themselves into grunts and snarls. Over a lighter, a simple, silver, flip-top, butane scented lighter. Part of Xander wants to return it. It's getting heavier, weighing his pocket down, making him feel uneven and off balance. Or maybe he should breathe a little.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The breath is deep, shallow, quiet; but it's loud enough. The second the oxygen fills him he sees Spike stop. Sees his body tighten and his head tip to the left.

"Who's there, now? Hmm? Someone's hiding out in their panic room."

All Xander can see is his profile and Spike is pulling the air in through his parted lips; tasting it.

"I know you're here, I know who you are. Where are you, Xander?"

Tasting _him_.

Before he can decide what to do the door is torn off the hinges and all he sees is black and pale.

"What are you doing here, hmm? Shouldn't a good boy like you be off in his bed getting tucked in by his mum?" Spike hasn't slid his human face on and Xander's fingers want to reach out and trace and feel. "Run away from home, have you?"

Spike's arm is braced against the doorframe and Xander thinks about lunging under and making a break for it, before remembering there's a vampire, a hole and the night against him. If he stays where he is, it's just the vampire; not really better odds, just less to deal with.

"I didn't run away, I'm hanging out. Taking some personal Xander-time. Reflecting."

Spike's eyes coast his body from bottom to top. "Reflecting? You're what, sixteen? Seventeen? What could you possibly have to reflect upon in your life?"

Xander was scared, now, well he's still scared, but now he can add enraged to the list. "Well, gee, I don't know. How about the fact that my best friends aren't speaking to me, my ex-girlfriend is in the hospital with a torso piercing, I've been here, alone, for what I figure is close to 9 hours and no one has come to look for me. Oh, and of course there's the fact that it's all you're fault."

The wild punch was a bad idea; he can tell by the well placed left-hook he got in return.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

He's back on that bed. He's really done with regaining consciousness on this bed. His brain picks this of all times to make random connections.

"You carried me. Again. Stop picking me up and laying me down like a girl."

Spike gives him an impatient look, pulls a pack of cigarettes out from nowhere, hangs one from his lower lip and lights it. "Then stop passing out like one."

"I don't, you keep knocking me into mini-comas." He notices Spike is snapping his wrist back and forth, opening and closing the lighter sharply. "And, hey, that was in my pants! I mean my pockets. You went through my pockets. I feel violated."

"Xander, Xander, Xander, if you're not awake for it, it's not violation; it's taking back what's mine." He takes a hard drag off his cigarette, one so deep that only someone that didn't need their lungs could pull off. "I did check for other misplaced trinkets. Didn't find anything. Well, nothing in the _pockets_ anyway."

"Oh, eww! You copped a feel?"

"Quite a few in fact." Before Xander has a chance to think about it too much, Spike has sat himself astride Xander's hips. Settling his weight, he falls forward, caging Xander's head. "Dru would like a present like you. Of course, finding her another bloke isn't exactly what I had in mind." He leaned in, tucking his head under Xander's chin and feather licking the hollow of his throat. "Might keep you for myself. Would you like that?"

Xander wants to say he'd hate that. To belong to a vampire, be a concubine of sorts, but he can't. He needs to move, to get away from the tongue that's lapping at his skin, but he can't. It's too sweet and all he can do is arch into it.

"That's it, pet. You taste like toasted almonds and warmth; wanna taste all of you. And I will, in every sense of the word."


End file.
